age, partly for his sake, in associating him with all she did for them, and for all whom he loved; there was no sin now in all this, but she felt it would be a crime to give her hand to another, when her whole heart was thus devoted to the dead.  There was something peculiarly soothing to the grateful and affectionate feelings with which she regarded her aunt and uncle; that she perhaps would be the only one of all those who had—­

                     “Played
    Beneath the same green tree,
  Whose voices mingled as they prayed
    Around one parent knee”—­

would remain with nothing to divert her attention from the pleasing task of soothing and cheering their advancing years, and her every effort was now turned towards making her single life, indeed, one of blessedness, by works of good and thoughts of love towards all with whom she might associate; but in these visions her brother had ever intimately mingled.  She had pictured herself beholding and rejoicing in his happiness, loving his children as her own, being to them a second mother.  She had fancied herself ever received with joy, a welcome inmate of her Edward’s home, and so strongly had her imagination become impressed with this idea, that its annihilation appeared to heighten the anguish with which the news of his untimely fate had overwhelmed her.  He was gone; and it seemed as if she had never, never felt so utterly desolate before; as if advancing years had entirely lost the soft and gentle colouring with which they had so lately been invested.  It seemed but a very short interval since she had seen him, the lovely, playful child, his mother’s pet, the admiration of all who looked on him; then he stood before her, the handsome, manly boy she had parted with, when he first left the sheltering roof of Oakwood, to become a sailor.  Then, shuddering, she recalled him when they had met again, after a lapse of suffering in the young life of each; and her too sensitive fancy conjured up the thought that her fault had not yet been sufficiently chastised, that he was taken from her because she had loved him too well; because her deep intense affection for him had caused her once to forget the mandate of her God.  In the deep agony of that thought, it seemed as if she lived over again those months of suffering, which in a former pages we have endeavoured to describe.

Humbled to the dust, she recognised the chastising hand of her Maker, and as if it had only now been committed, she acknowledged and repented the transgression a moment’s powerful temptation had forced her to commit.  Had there been one to whom she could have confessed these feelings, whose soothing friendship would have whispered it was needless and uncalled-for to enhance the suffering of Edward’s fate by such self-reproach, Ellen’s young heart would have been relieved; but from that beloved relative who might have consoled and alleviated her grief, this bitter trial she must still conceal.  Mr.